I’d walked down to the shed to see what my Dad was up to. He’d obviously not heard me and was bent over a small bike, painting it white. I don’t know how but I knew I wasn’t supposed to see it and tiptoed away. A few days later, my fifth birthday, I woke to find the now white and yellow bike was mine. Dad and I spent the morning on the road in the street where we lived, he running behind me holding the seat until I’d found my balance. I don’t remember falling, I don’t remember being scared, I don’t remember fumbling with pedals and steering. I only remember thinking I was flying.